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Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Elan Morgan: Writer + Web Designer

Apr 23

Apr 23 Old, Ten Good Things About Fridays, And Sexual Deprogramming

Today, I feel like somebody's grandma - kind of old and achy and looking forward to seeing the kids.

As I am wont to do when I am lazy, I am of the mind to make a list. I love lists. They are so orderly, and all the information comes in these tidy little snippets. They are good for browsing through and not having to commit yourself to reading thoroughly in one big slog. What is my list today? It is all about Fridays and why I love them:

Fridays are the best days for taking long, hot baths. It's the end of a workweek, so I don't have to worry about how much of my evening has been lost in the bathtub, because I don't have to go to bed early. I can lie in the bathtub for hours reading, replenishing the hot water, and daydreaming and still have a whole long evening left do with what I want. It's luxurious.

Since I associate almost everything with colours, Fridays are a rich blue-black with comforting flecks of toasty, furry brown. In my perception of things, this denotes an openness, airiness, and freedom of movement while still allowing for a home-comfortness and possibly some crafting.

Friday is just a plain good word. Rarely is the use of an "f" so delicious.

Friday is all about the goddesses. In Old English it was "Frigga's Day", which relates to the Germanic goddess of married love, Frigg. It is also linked with another Germanic goddess, Freya, and the Greek goddess, Aphrodite.

The day of the week that I am most likely to dye my hair on is a Friday, and I love that simple transformation process. The colour is extra vibrant when I go out on a Friday night, and if I have any noticeably dyed spots on my skin, they are hidden by the darkness of bars and dance clubs.

I let myself eat whatever damn hell crap I like on Fridays. I have lost a fair chunk of weight, and one of the ways I did it was to still I let myself eat whatever I loved one day a week. Oh, Fridays, sweet Fridays. Fridays involve pizza, orange soda, deep-fried anything, and nachos with fake cheese from 7-11. Who wouldn't love a day that could stop your heart from the sheer ecstasy of it all?

Friday is the day when holidays start. Enough said.

I always feel that I deserve my weekends. The idea of deserving things is a strange concept, and I rarely, if ever, feel that I do deserve things, but no matter how little effort I may have put into my work week, somehow Fridays always feel like the promise of dessert after forcing myself through a heap of mashed turnips.

Friday the 13th happens every year and is the day during which even the non-believers get a little nervous. I like it, because I like a little fear in people. I'm sick that way.

Friday is the day next week when the Fiery One is returning from his trip out east, and I get to exert all the sweetness upon him he can handle when he walks through our door.

I had the strangest dream last night. Lately, my dreams have been fairly vague and usually leave only an emotional aftertaste, but not last night's adventure. My dream was clear and sharp, and it even had a linear and coherent story line. The Fiery One and I were visiting another city that was both like and unlike any city I have ever been in. He and I parted ways, and I was to meet up with my mother in a room at a particularly posh hotel. I was really suspicious about my mother's motives for having rented a room to meet in, and I had the distinct sense that I was being led into a trap of some kind. My mother is not normally the sort of woman who would drop money on a hotel room just to have a private place to meet someone. As I was walking on my way to the hotel and enjoying the beautifully clear and sunny late spring day, I ran into a group of guys that I knew. They were hanging out, sitting around on an abandoned car in a narrow lot between two buildings. I realized that I was probably running late and promised to look for them later after I had met with my mother. When I was nearing the hotel, I noticed a man in his late twenties or early thirties standing outside the front of the building. He appeared to be waiting impatiently for someone, and he kept checking his watch. I stopped short to watch him, because there was something about him that I did not like. When I stopped on the sidewalk, he looked in my direction, and I saw a distinct look of recognition in his eyes, even though we had to be about thirty feet away from each other. He was waiting for me. Something was very wrong, and I knew that there was no way I was going to be meeting up with my mother in that hotel. I didn't know what she had planned, but I wasn't going to be a party to it. I turned and walked away a few feet and then turned back around to snap a couple of digital pictures of him, in case anyone I knew would be able to recognize who he was. I walked as quickly as I could back to the lot where my chums were hanging out, and relayed to them the strange meeting my mother had requested. When I showed them the pictures I had taken of the man outside the hotel, one of my friends recognized him immediately. He said that the man was a cop who moonlighted doing interventions (also know as deprogrammings). This man specialized in deprogramming people who believed that they were any one of the varieties of less than hetero sexualities. One of my friends pointed out that, despite the fact that the Fiery One and I were now married, my mother had probably somehow found out that I was less than straight and thought that I still needed to be "straightened" out. I was horrified. It all came together in my mind how she had been planning on getting me into the hotel room, trapping me there, and allowing that deprogrammer several days to torture me psychologically in order to alter my sexual identity. I walked the city's streets for hours, laying low and trying to find the Fiery One so I could tell him that we needed to get out of town as soon as possible. I was none too keen on being kidnapped and reprogrammed. I found the Fiery One a few hours later standing on the street with a friend of his. I showed the friend the pictures of the deprogrammer, and he said, "Oh my god, that's Pat Fiacco's son!" Pat Fiacco was the mayor of this city we were visiting, and he just so happened to be standing a few feet away from us. He had overheard our conversation and came over to see what we were looking at. He was very curious about why I had pictures of his son and why his son had been in that part of town at that time of day when his beat was in another part of the city altogether. The mayor had no prior knowledge of his son's involvement with forcing people straight, and he looked quite troubled. AND THEN MY ALARM CLOCK WENT OFF REALLY FUCKING LOUD NEXT TO MY HEAD AND WOKE ME UP.

First, I read that cumin would be good for warding against Alzheimers, and now it’s also good for cystic fibrosis? People in India must be really freaking healthy.

If you’re a Catholic who supports legalized abortion, you can be denied Holy Communion.

Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They have been seen in the Globe & Mail, Best Health, Woman's Day, and Flow magazines, TEDxRegina, and on CBC News and Radio. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They have been seen in the Globe & Mail, Best Health, Woman's Day, and Flow magazines, TEDxRegina, and on CBC News and Radio. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.